


Conscience Does Make Cowards

by astralInferno



Category: October Daye Series - Seanan McGuire
Genre: Gen, I just want simon to be ok and really who wouldnt, an author who is being very optimistic about the way things will conclude, canon-typical self harm (blood magic), painful conversations, spoilers for A Killing Frost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:28:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29311842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralInferno/pseuds/astralInferno
Summary: Duke Sylvester attends a ball on short notice, only to find his brother there, forcing a loud and painful conversation to ensue, not only several decades earlier than either is ready for, but also while the entire court watches. At least Arden won't need to provide entertainment.
Relationships: Dianda Lorden/Patrick Lorden/Simon Torquill, Simon Torquill & Sylvester Torquill
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Conscience Does Make Cowards

_Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,  
And thus the native hue of resolution  
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought_

-William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_  


It was a simple oversight. Had he been thinking, had he been at his best, he would have seen this coming. But Sylvester was tired; lonely; angry - and, at the end of the day, he thought well of the Queen. The short notice was a problem, but not an insurmountable one - he had no intention of missing the ball. 

(Had he spoken of it to Luna, of course, she would have raised the matter. She was sharper than he, in so many ways, and they both kept their ears to the grapevine. Even Etienne could have realised, but alas - the first our dutiful seneschal heard of the plan was when Sylvester began to leave the Knowe. Do not judge Etienne unkindly for not reacting instantly; for this was a dark time, if not as dark as those that had passed before, and Sylvester’s smile as he opened the door bore a greater echo of its old warmth than Etienne was accustomed to seeing. He had no desire to take that from his liege.)

Perhaps that meant it was unavoidable. Perhaps it didn’t. But the problem stood before him nonetheless, and whether he could have stayed home tonight, it was one he would need to face eventually.

He hadn’t expected it to be today.  
“What an unexpected pleasure,” said Simon. He bowed low; far lower than he was obliged to for a mere Duke. It was either guilt or mockery, and Sylvester didn’t wonder which for a moment.  
“Unexpected is right.” replied Sylvester, voice low. The courtiers were already whispering about him, and as one wondered aloud if they ought to call for the guards, he realised that at some point, his hand had curled into a fist.

How peculiar.

Slowly, manually, and with great effort, he uncurled it.  
He knew better. He _knew_ that Simon was a guest here; married to Patrick and to Duchess Dianda, that he was here at Arden’s invitation - Dianda was a trusted friend and ally, after all. He knew that the Luidaeg had spoken for his brother.  
His hand did not need to be on his sword. He need guard himself only against mockery; a practice he had learned, in fact, from the very same man who now stood before him with an all-too-false facade of geniality. He _knew_ there was no tragedy waiting for him.

But he _felt_ it. He felt that this was the man who had tried to ruin his life, once, twice, thrice, dealing him blow after blow from an avenue he could not see, could not defend, could not even predict. This man had stolen his wife, broken his daughter, and then taken his niece as well.

(The fact that said niece was Simon’s daughter was, he assured the logical part of his brain, irrelevant.)

He _knew_ that Simon was here as a guest, with his partners - and whatever he thought of Patrick, he had thought Dianda smarter than this. But his heart said otherwise. His heart said that he stood before no man, no brother, but one of faerie’s greatest monsters, and that there was danger here.

“Perhaps I should send word to Shadowed Hills before I do something as brave as accept an invitation to party.” said Simon. There was a smile on his lips, the corner of his mouth twitching wryly upwards in the way Sylvester remembered. He watched the smile, and let it fuel his anger, ignoring the contrition in his eyes.  
“Alas, if you had only had that idea twenty years ago.” he replied, forcing a smile of his own to form. Simon looked, for a moment, as if he had been slapped, and a small part of Sylvester was mortified at how much that look of pain filled him with glee.  
“I hope everyone is well. I heard Etienne was dealing with some form of magic-sealant?”  
“Your information is out of date.” he replied, shortly. “He recovered more than a year ago.”  
“I’m glad to hear that.” said Simon, with a thin layer of sincerity. 

Sylvester said nothing, hoping against hope that Simon wouldn’t ask the logical next question.  
“How is your Duchess?” he asked, a fragile note of hope in his voice.  
“Fine.” said Sylvester, immediately.  
“Ah.” said Simon, the note falling broken from his lips.

(Luna was not fine. Luna had not been fine for some time. In truth, that was Rayseline’s doing, but as far as Shadowed Hills was concerned, every one of Rayseline’s actions belonged in truth to her uncle.)  
“And what of -” he began, and Sylvester did not let him finish.  
“So help me by the root and branch, if you even speak her name, I will make you regret it.”  
“I already do, dear brother, you must -”  
“The only thing I feel I _must_ do right now is to insist that you take that word from your lips, along with the name of my only daughter, and speak neither of them again.” he hissed. His head was throbbing, bringing to the surface memories of a time he would rather forget - a time that could trace its source to, yes, once again, to-  
“Duke Torquill, then,” and there was a pain, and an exasperation too in Simon’s voice as he tried and failed to make a joke of being forbidden to name his only living sibling as ‘brother’. “I would beg of you; what can I do for you? I would give anything if it could turn back the wheel, and undo what has been done, but even the Three had no such gifts. All I have is the now, and I wish to help undo that damage. As much as I can; for I owe it to you, as I owe October, and I owe to your lady love and daughter, too, so please. Simply ask me, and I will-”  
“Simon.” he interrupted the impassioned monologue.  
“...Sylvester?”  
“There is nothing I want from you.”  
“...excuse me?”  
“There is nothing. I want. From you.” he repeated, slowly. “...except to leave. To never darken my halls again. To never speak to my family again.”

There was a long pause. Distantly, Sylvester realised a circle had formed around them. Just as distantly, he realised he no longer cared. This confrontation was never going to stay out of the court’s ears.  
“You… know that I cannot do that.” said Simon.  
“Then no. There is nothing you can give me.”  
“Sylvester, I-”  
“Unless you can give me back a decade of my wife’s life? My daughter’s childhood?” he snapped, his weary patience broken by too many repetitions of these empty promises. “Oberon’s balls, Simon, you even took Toby from me. Am I to have nothing? No-one? Is that your purpose in my life?”

Sylvester hadn’t realised he was shouting, but the room was frozen around them, and he winced. Not for Simon, but for Arden, whose party was now, irrevocably, about the Torquill family drama.

But the silence stretched out for longer than anyone expected before Simon took a deep breath and spoke.  
“I do not know.” he said, his voice quivering. “I hope not, for I never meant to hurt you, although I know I have hurt you once and twice and thrice again, more than anyone can expect to be hurt and stay breathing. I took your wife, and hurt her, and I took your daughter, and Oberon forgive me that I do not know if she will ever recover.” he said, and took a deep breath. When he continued, it was with a renewed strength. “...but I am not the one who took dear October from you. That was your own doing, for you always were blind to the reality of being a hero.”  
“You dare-”  
“October sacrifices. That is what she does. It is what heroes do. When the realm is in danger, when monsters need slaying, when the courts cry out for help, she answers, and she pays for it in every way that she can. She pays for it in blood, and her mother’s nature is a blessing that it allows her such limitless vaults. She pays for it in time, torn away from those she cares for, and once again, the greatest example of that is my own fault. But she pays for it, too, in safety, for she stands head and shoulders above the court, a symbol and a target for all that might hurt it. The slings and arrows that aim for her do not always strike her flesh, but that of those she cares for, and do you understand the cruellest part of being a hero?”  
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” said Sylvester, who did not, in fact, know what Simon was getting at.  
“She cannot stop to comfort them. Because a hero steps up and saves everyone, and that means the little things fall behind. When she is fighting with the legends that haunt the nightmares of our kind, would her lover draw her back for a restaurant dinner? When a hero leaves to quest, would anyone chide him for leaving his family behind? When their enemies lash out, and their arrows strike true against those that they love, is that the hero’s fault?”  
“Are you trying to claim that _I_ have wronged _you_?” said Sylvester, stunned.  
“Once more you miss my point, although I will say that I call you brother to remind you of the role you should aspire to, and not because it is one you have earned.” he said, his voice as cool as it had ever been as a monster. 

Sylvester disliked that it felt a little more justified.  
“But what I am truly saying is that October’s calling is to attract danger. If you care for her, you must accept that being in her orbit will always draw pain to you. It is the price of knowing someone that seeks to make things better. Change is always painful.”  
“This is ridiculous.” he murmured.  
“You passed the torch to her, promised to be her safe harbor, and then her enemies struck at you, and yours, and it is a sign of your bravery that you did what you could to keep her safe, but you looked between her and her mother again and again and again, and chose her mother every time, and somehow, she forgave you that.” 

Sylvester said nothing. Simon took a breath.  
“...and then she had to make a sacrifice of your happiness, once, and you asked her to leave.”  
“What do you want from me, Simon?” he said, again. “Why are you here?”  
“I was looking forward to socialising, actually.” he admitted. “But as soon as I saw you, I knew this had to happen.”  
“This was always going to happen.” acknowledged Sylvester.

It was the first time he had agreed with Simon in… in a long time. They stared at each other in the quiet knowe, quietly ignoring the fact that airing their dirty laundry in public meant the entire court was staring. 

“...well, it seems to be happening, and with no end in sight.” Simon broke it, with the false levity he’d always had. “What do we do about it, dear Duke?”  
“...I… I want to know why, but I already know the answer. I want to ask how you could do it, but I think of the madness that gripped me when my daughters were gone, and I know that too. I still cannot bring myself to understand. I still cannot imagine anything you could say that would make this right.”  
“It is cruel of me to ask for another chance after everything I’ve done.” he said, quietly. “And yet, my life is of wonders now that I dare to dream that I might receive one. Sylvester, there is nothing I can say or do that will repair what I have done, nor show the depth of my regret, save one.”

Simon drew a tiny knife from his belt. Thin, narrow, fragile, it was clear that it was no weapon. It was an eating utensil, the edge mercifully clean. With his other hand, he drew up his sleeve.  
“I can show you. If you must hate me, then hate me, but… do it with understanding.” he said, and there was a naked _desperation_ in it that made Sylvester’s heart ache, as much as it didn’t want to. Simon misunderstood the pause.  
“...by the root and branch,” he began, formally, as the scent of smoke and cider rose into the air. “By oak, and ash, and rowan and thorn, I swear that I have seen nothing added to my blood that would do you ill. My intent is as I claimed; to share my knowledge, and to show you why, and how. If there is sickness that I do not know, I will bear the responsibility for that mistake, and I will see to it that the harm is undone.” he announced. Sylvester shook his head, slightly.  
“I wasn’t worried about that.” Simon stared. Sylvester understood why. He was just as surprised - he hadn’t realised until that moment that he believed it - that he really believed Simon was not here to hurt him. Simon blinked, and, unwilling, Sylvester explained.  
“...I could have ridden your blood while I had you sleeping. I considered it once or twice. But, I… I was not ready.” he said, lamely.  
_“Was not ready to see your side of things. Was not ready to stop blaming you. Was not ready to admit that there was no villain here, only Evening, and a great deal of poor decisions._

_Am I ready now?”_  
“...and now?” asked Simon, quietly echoing Sylvester’s inner questions. Syvlester didn’t move, and then, slowly, looked away from his brother, eyes scanning across the circle. He saw Dianda Lorden, first, watching intently, and Patrick - whose expression made it very clear that Sylvester was not the only one with a grudge.  
Sylvester acknowledged it with a blink. Patrick was a good friend. A better friend than he had ever thought Simon had deserved. He moved on regardless, until he found the fae he was looking for.

He dipped himself into a bow to Arden Windermere.  
“I beg your forgiveness that this occurred here,” he said. “It was never my intent when I arrived.”  
“Peace.” she said, after the moment’s concern at being dragged closer into this mess passed from her face. “You both know that this always had to happen, and it is best that it happens now, and gets it over with. As long as things don’t get any worse…”  
“I hope that I can control myself, Your Highness.” he promised. “Would you prefer we take our leave before continuing?”  
“As you’ve had the lion’s share of your argument at my party, I think it only fair that we get to see how it ends.” she said, dryly. “You have my permission.”

Sylvester wasn’t sure how he felt about being the entertainment of the evening, but he also didn’t care. 

He stepped forward, and pulled a chair from a nearby table. Simon, looking pleasantly surprised, did the same, and the two of them sat together. 

It didn’t feel real.

It felt nonsensical. It felt, on some level, like a betrayal. Like Sylvester was letting down all the family he had left. But then; Toby was his family, too. And she trusted Simon. 

Simon had been his family, once.

“When you’re ready.” he said, and surprised himself once more with how calm he sounded.  
Simon raised the knife, and cut along his forearm with the ease of long practice, and his magic rose once again in the air, the same scent of apple and smoke that it was in his memories, quite unlike the foul fruit it had been since. Blood welled up from the wound, ugly and red, staining his perfect form with its presence. Distantly, in the far-off-land of several feet away, several attendants gasped at the sight of blood, so casually and so expertly spilt. Despite his control, a few drops slid down his skin, dripping to the floor, and pooled there.

Sylvester had never liked blood magic, but he swallowed his growing unease and took his brother’s arm. With a single breath to center himself he called up his own magic, dogwood and daffodil, rising and twining itself around Simons as if they had never been apart.  
He drank from the wound, and let himself fall away into the thoughts within. The first thing he felt was pain, and fear, and he almost stumbled at the size of it. He had known, on some level, that Simon felt bad for what he had done, but he had never dreamed of the way it was eating him up inside, his guilt like a sinkhole in the foundations of the knowe, threatening to pull everything to ruin. But then, Sylvester had tried not to think about how Simon felt; for that was the first step to acknowledging that his brother was not a monster, and could not be disregarded and forgotten. 

Just below that was love. Love for Amandine, uncertain and poisoned. Love for Patrick, pure and ancient and tinged with a child’s awe that something so wonderful could ever be his. For Dianda, new and uncertain, for himself, old and pained, and for Toby, too, a ringing joy that she could become the person she is with Amandine and Sylvester trying to so hard to stop her.

And August; love for August so strong that it eclipsed everything. Eclipsed Amandine, eclipsed the oak and the thorn, the moon and the stars. Love that would lead a good man into hell. 

Sylvester thought of Raysel, and understood. The thought shifted the memories, dragging him under, and _such cruelty, that I must do this to my brother, that I visit upon him a fraction of my own pain, but it will be brief; it will be brief. I can free them soon. It is necessary. Need to keep her happy, need to obey, need to_  
Sylvester drew back, breathing hard, hesitated, and dove back into the blood.

His eyes closed, and so did Simon’s, and to the disappointment of the watching nobles, they sat there, in a bloody embrace, and silence. The court did not get to know what Sylvester saw in his brother’s memories; what reasons he found, what tragedies he finally understood. They saw sleep, and magic, and blood.

“...this is not the exciting climax I envisioned.” muttered Arden.

When they awoke, they did so in a far quieter room. Most of the circle had wandered away. Indeed, most of them had left the knowe. That was a blessing, in truth, but it wasn’t one they were thinking of. Sylvester stared at his brother, and Simon stared back, no longer certain where they stood; hardly daring to hope.

It came to Sylvester to make the first step. Simon had offered the hand as far as he could. Sylvester couldn’t really do it.  
“...I am not ready.” he said, quiet. “You were our personal bogeyman for so many years, Simon. No amount of blood can wash that away in a single night.”  
“...I understand.” said Simon, and forced half a smile.  
“...but. However I feel. However much I am not ready to call you my friend, and welcome you back into my home and my life. You are not a monster. You are Simon Torquill; Daoine Sidhe, whose life has been one long series of missteps and painful mistakes.”  
“I never tried to claim otherwise.”  
“...and you are my brother. It is foolish of me to deny that.” he said, rising to his feet, and taking in those that remained. Arden, of course. Both Patrick and Dianda, no more surprising. Madden. Lowri. He gave another bow to Arden as he took another step backwards.  
“Your Majesty. I believe I can promise that this will not happen again, if you can forgive that it happened once.”  
Arden managed to nod, with a regality that was quite impressive for the hour it had become.  
“Then, with your permission, I had best take my leave. Etienne may well be concerned about my whereabouts.”  
“Of course. Open roads.”

Sylvester nodded, and turned back to his brother. His head was beginning to pound.  
“Give Toby my love when next you speak to her.” he asked. Simon gave a fraction of a nod. Sylvester gave half a smile in return, and looked to Patrick, giving a short bow to him as well.  
“I appreciate everything you have done for my brother.” he said carefully pronouncing every syllable. “Everyone should be so lucky as to have a friend like you.”  
“That… that is kind of you to say.” he managed to reply, before adding “Open waters.”  
“Kind fires.” replied Sylvester, and turned to go. He made it two steps before Simon’s voice rang out again.  
“...Sylvester…”

He sighed, and turned, and tried to smile, to show some amount of willingness. It came out as a grimace. The magic burn of such a deep dive was quite unpleasant for someone who avoided blood magic whenever they could.  
“Please be brief, brother, I do truly wish to return to my home. I am not trying to run from you.”  
“I understand that. I just… I must ask.” he said, and looked away. “You are not ready now, but… do you think you will be? Can we ever mend what was broken between us?”

Sylvester did not have the energy for that question.

He gave the only answer he could.  
“Eventually, I think we will try.” he said.  
“Eventually.” echoed Simon.  
“We have forever.” said Sylvester. “Open roads, Simon.”  
“Kind fires, brother.” he replied, automatically, and kept watching as Sylvester walked away.

Simon sighed, letting the tension slip from his shoulders, down his arms, and away. This had not gone as he had dreamed. But it had gone far, far better than he had expected.  
“We have forever.” he murmured, quietly. 

Patrick stepped beside him and took his hand, squeezing it once affectionately - before lifting it and seeing to the shallow cut.  
“Seems like you got upgraded back to estranged brother.” said Dianda, rolling up beside them.  
“It seems so.” echoed Simon.  
“Odd place to be _up_ grading to, but I’m glad for you.”  
“It’s better than I’d feared. This is progress.”  
“Progress, huh.” she said, and shook her head. “I’ll never understand the Divided Courts. Pretty slow progress.”  
“But progress nonetheless.” said Simon. 

Patrick finished bandaging his arm. Without hesitation, Simon took both their hands in his, and kissed them in turn, before giving a tired, natural smile.  
“And as he says - we have forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> (new fan content platform who dis)  
> Hey this is my first upload to AO3, I tried to follow conventions and stuff, but I can't be sure.
> 
> I wrote this while re-reading the series. It's Very optimistic and the real equivalent will probably take six extra books and a disembowelling or two.  
> The original version that I shared with some friends had a couple of major flaws, which my mom gently pointed out. One of them - the lack of description of the blood itself, which the series is always very careful to viscerally describe - was easily fixed, and I have!  
> the other - the fact that the blood magic was purely internal and the reader didn't see much of it was not easily fixed, and I'm not willing to cross-reference like five books in order to do it properly, so /an attempt was made/ but the blood magic scene is still a little short. The ideal version would go through a whole bunch of scenes from Simon's perspective, but... it would require massivce research, and make the fic a Lot longer than it already is. Hope you enjoyed it, though. :)


End file.
